


Ride it Out

by TheSupernova



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Fangs, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Omega Verse, Porn with Feelings, barely but it's there, obligatory heat fic, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSupernova/pseuds/TheSupernova
Summary: Jaskier's been off all day. Restless, even more talktative than usual (if that's possible) and not once does he complain about how long they've been walking. It isn't until Geralt returns from a contract early that he realises just what's wrong with the bard.AKA Geralt thought Jaskier was a beta, until he didn't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 910





	Ride it Out

“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, for what surely must be the hundredth time. 

“Yes, yes, we all get it. Can’t do your broody, Witchery thing when you’re distracted,” Jaskier sulks. 

It’s not that the bard’s been doing anything wrong, per se, but there’s an edge of restlessness to his scent, beside something else Geralt can’t quite put his finger on, that’s about the most distracting thing Geralt’s ever faced. Damn fae blood makes it near impossible to read Jaskier sometimes. It doesn’t help that the bard is the weakest scented beta he’s ever met.

They’ve been on the road since dawn, sundown fast approaching, and during that time Jaskier has hardly. Shut. Up. It’s not his normal chatter, anecdotes and questions no sane person has ever asked a Witcher before. It’s not even his half-hummed melodies, words spoken then retracted, worked and reworked into a ballad or drinking song.

No. Jaskier started talking the moment he woke up, about absolutely nothing and everything, and hasn’t let Geralt get a word in edgewise since. Not that Geralt generally interrupts the bard, but still. 

“And anyway, are we nearly there, Geralt?” Jaskier asks.

It strikes Geralt that Jaskier hasn’t asked even once to ride on Roach (which he still does, even knowing Geralt will say no), despite them having travelled all day with only one real break to eat. His brow furrows as he realises Jaskier never even asked to stop and rest along the way.

“Soon,” Geralt promises him, slowly slipping from annoyance to worry. Not that he worries about Jaskier. The bard can take care of himself, and if he can’t, Geralt did warn him of the dangers of travelling with a Witcher.

They reach the town not a half hour later, and like always the first thing Geralt does is stop to check the notice board. There’re a few flyers, most of them for monsters that really don’t even need a Witcher.

He swears he hears Jaskier let out a whine behind him, muffled and bitten back but still there. He says nothing, instead zeroing in on a contract he should be able to fill tonight, if it’s accurate. A lone drowner in the nearby river.

Jaskier reeks of relief when Geralt pulls the flyer down, though outwardly he only smiles. 

“Right, well, I’m going to find us accommodation,” Jaskier says, clapping his hands together. “I suppose you’ll be off to visit the Alderman?”

Geralt grunts, a sound that most would classify as noncommittal but Jaskier understands easily. At least he would, were he not utterly distracted by whatever’s been bothering him all day.

He leaves before Geralt has a chance to ask, though he’s certain the words wouldn’t come regardless. With nothing else for it he seeks out the Alderman, takes the first half of the payment, then goes off in search of Jaskier and the closest stable for Roach. She’s been waking all day, and the river is near enough he shouldn’t need her.

There’s only one inn, which makes it all the more confusing when Geralt walks in to find Jaskier nowhere in sight. Normally the bard would be at the bar after a long day travelling—“I can’t neglect my voice, Geralt”—or else flirting with the barmaid, or even getting ready to perform. It’s certainly late enough. 

The innkeeper eyes him warily as he approaches, but when he asks after Jaskier she jerks her head in the direction of the stairs. 

Jaskier must’ve been more worn out than he realised. That’s all. 

In all the time Geralt’s known him, he’s never once known Jaskier to be startled by his presence. Surprised, certainly, but never outright startled aside from the few unfortunately memorable times he’s walked in from a contract early and gotten an eyeful he certainly didn’t want to see.

(Didn’t he?)

So when Geralt walks into the room, navigating purely by the bard’s scent, he’s more than a little worried when Jaskier jumps, whipping around to stare at him. 

He looks more nervous than the handful of times Geralt’s caught him with his pants down.

“Ah, back already. Got the contract?” Jaskier asks. Well, rambles. 

“Drowner,” Geralt offers, discreetly sniffing the air. There’s definitely something off about Jaskier, but he can’t figure out what it _means_. “Might as well head out now.”

He waits for Jaskier to ask to come along. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches beyond uncomfortable, until Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat.

“Right, yes, suppose you should be going then.”

Geralt isn’t hurt that Jaskier’s trying to get rid of him. Really, he’s not. He’s just worried for the closest thing he has to a friend, that’s all. Absolutely no personal feelings involved.

He nearly manages to convince himself of that as he grabs his swords and heads out. They’ve been travelling together a while this stint, at least a month if he’s counting right. It’s longer than usual, and Jaskier’s probably just eager for some time alone spending the past week on the road.

Surely that’s it.

Geralt doesn’t let it distract him as he dispatches the drowner, though it’s more difficult than normal to keep his thoughts on the task at hand. It really is only one drowner, which Geralt didn’t expect, and it takes barely any time to slay the thing. Less time still to take the head back to the Alderman and collect the rest of his payment.

He’s almost managed to put Jaskier’s odd behaviour out of his mind entirely, instead thinking only of taking a bath and falling asleep as soon as possible. That changes the moment he steps foot in the inn.

As soon as he gets inside, the only thing he can smell is Jaskier. Not just Jaskier, but the sweet, almost cloying scent he’s been letting off all day. Whatever’s been going on, it’s gotten worse since he left.

Without so much as a nod to the innkeeper, he hurries to their room. The second he opens the door he’s hit in the face with the sweetest scent he can imagine. Jaskier freezes at the sound of the door opening, seemingly in the middle of packing his bags. Even staring slack-jawed and glassy-eyed at Geralt he’s still fidgeting, still shifting restlessly on his feet.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt growls, the alpha in him slowly rearing its head. But that doesn’t make sense. Jaskier’s a beta, he’s always been a beta.

Yet the scent that’s been surrounding Jaskier all day is coming off of him in waves now, completely filling the room and blocking out everything else.

“No, no, Geralt, you have to _leave_ ,” Jaskier says, backing up against the far wall, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls again. “What’s happening to you?”

Jaskier whines, still pressed back against the wall, still struggling to keep the distance between them even as Geralt steps forward without thinking.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier whimpers. “I don’t—you can’t— _you weren’t supposed to be back yet._ ”

The alpha in him stirs, in a way it hasn’t for years, and all at once it clicks. Jaskier’s in heat.

“You’re an omega?” Geralt demands, the words clawing their way harshly from his throat before he can stop them. Luckily, the shock of the question snaps Jaskier out of it for a moment.

“What do you mean ‘I’m an omega’? Of course I’m a bloody omega, Geralt! Always have been!”

“I didn’t…” His head is spinning. How long has he known Jaskier? How many heats has the man gone through, leaving the Path to ride them out alone? Or not alone… The thought sends a flare of jealously shooting through Geralt’s gut, and he takes an unconscious step forward.

“No, Geralt, what are you doing?” Jaskier’s voice rises in pitch until it’s barely a squeak, and he clamps a hand over his nose.

Oh. He can smell Geralt. But Witchers aren’t supposed to go into rut, aren’t supposed to be able to. Yet Geralt can feel his body reacting to Jaskier’s heat, can feel himself growing hard as he takes another unwilling step forward.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, and suddenly Geralt’s right in front of him, boxing him against the wall, burning where he presses against the bard.

“Do you want this?” Geralt grunts, clenching his fists to keep them off of Jaskier until he’s got permission.

“I—of course I do, Geralt,” Jaskier says, hands pressed against the wall. “But, no, _you_ don’t want this, you’re only like this because I’m in heat.”

Geralt growls, hands shaking with the effort of not touching the bard below him. He just has to get Jaskier to _understand_.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, “I’ve wanted you for _years_.”

Jaskier looks up at him, impossibly blue eyes shining with hope.

“But why didn’t you _say_ something?” Jaskier asks, whining as his hands finally come to rest on Geralt’s hips. It’s relief and torture both, Geralt’s long-buried instincts telling him to grab Jaskier and claim him in every way possible.

“Thought you were a beta,” Geralt says. “I never knew you wanted this.”

Jaskier is caught between laughing and crying, emotions running rampant with the hormones flooding his system. He settles instead for leaning his entire weight against Geralt, pushing down the _need_ spread through every inch of him in favour of pressing his nose to Geralt’s chest and breathing in his scent.

“Jask, can I—”

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier breathes, cutting him off.

It’s all the permission Geralt needs to let his alpha side take over. He hauls Jaskier up until the bard is sitting on his hips, legs wrapped around his waist as he sandwiches the bard between himself and the wall. Jaskier whines pathetically, jerking forward to try and get any kind of friction on his neglected cock, but Geralt’s strength pins him in place.

“Don’t tease me, Geralt,” Jaskier begs, “Just want you, please.”

Geralt silences him with a kiss, sliding their lips together as he adjusts his grip to grab at Jaskier’s firm ass. There’s some benefit to Jaskier walking everywhere, it seems.

“Shh, Lark,” Geralt murmurs, breaking away to nose into the crook of his neck. “Gonna take care of you.”

Jaskier keens at that, a hand twisting in Geralt’s hair as he ruts their hips together. Now that he knows what the scent is he can smell Jaskier’s desperation, the spicy heat of his arousal, and…something else, something more intense, something warm like sunshine and sweet as Jaskier’s voice.

Geralt puts that out of his mind to focus on taking care of his bard. As much as he loves having Jaskier’s weight against him, legs tight around his weight and their bodies pressed tight together, the last remnants of his clarity spur him to pull Jaskier closer and carry him to the bed.

Jaskier squeaks, clutching tight to Geralt as he’s carried. Then he keeps holding tight, pulling Geralt down atop him.

“Jask, clothes,” Geralt reminds him. Jaskier lets out a whine, as if the thought of parting from Geralt physically pains him, but lets the Witcher pull back and work his doublet open.

With the way Jaskier is pawing at him, trying valiantly to get Geralt back on top of him, the Witcher figures it’ll be easier to get all their clothes off at once and save the trouble later. More than that, he wants to feel Jaskier, wants to feel skin against skin, wants to touch and kiss and claim every inch of his omega.

His. Jaskier is _his_.

“Geralt, I swear, if you don’t get on with it I really will leave,” Jaskier says, though the effect is lost to the high, breathy quality of his voice.

“Patience,” Geralt says, even as he’s moving down, pressing their bodies together, grunting at the feeling of their cocks rubbing together. He takes them both in hand and pumps slowly, kissing away the moans and whimpers that fall from Jaskier’s lips, biting back his own noises of pleasure. They’re both already leaking, precum slicking the way for Geralt’s hand.

“There’s— I’ve—Oil,” Jaskier finally says dumbly, hips trying to buck where they’re pinned in place by Geralt’s, and then he’s clawing for his discarded pants, retrieving a bottle of oil from the pocket. He’s already plenty slick, but Geralt’s _big_ , and he’d rather be safe.

There’s no time for slow and teasing, not with need burning through both of them. Geralt uncorks the bottle and slicks his fingers, pressing a single digit against Jaskier’s hole. The omega moans, muscles fluttering around Geralt’s finger as he pushes his way in. He’s still got a hand wrapped around both their cocks, and Jaskier’s caught between thrusting forward and fucking back on Geralt’s thick fingers.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Geralt breathes, kissing Jaskier’s lips, his jaw, his neck. He gets a second finger in, crooking them forward in search of…

“Oh, _oh fuck_ , Geralt!” Jaskier cries, back arching off the bed as Geralt finds the spot that completely knocks the breath from his bard’s lungs.

“Finally succeeded in rendering you speechless,” Geralt teases, even as he scissors his fingers, stretching him out. “Hmm, perhaps I should buy you a gag.”

“Geralt, don’t you _dare_!” Jaskier groans, though he blushes such a pretty colour that he must find the idea at least somewhat attractive. “Please, have mercy, just fuck me already.”

He’s probably prepared enough, loose and slick from heat, three of Geralt’s fingers now buried in him, rocking against his prostate. But the sounds he’s making, the overwhelming spice of his scent where it curls around them both, is too good to waste for even a moment. 

So Geralt pushes in a fourth finger, which really takes no effort at all, and Jaskier gasps as his hands scrabble for purchase on the Witcher’s shoulders. 

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier moans, shamelessly writhing on Geralt’s fingers. The alpha in Geralt thinks he’d look much better writing on his cock. 

He’s beyond painfully hard, has been since the moment he realised Jaskier was in heat. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to slam his cock into Jaskier and plow away. 

“Jaskier,” he growls, biting at his lip, fangs catching on the sensitive skin.

“Please, alpha, please,” he begs, whining as Geralt draws his fingers out, leaving him empty.

“Use your words, Lark,” Geralt says, grinning against his omega’s mouth. 

“Oh, oh fuck you!” Jaskier groans, earning a chuckle from the Witcher. 

“Maybe later,” he offers. “Now tell me what you want.”

“What I want,” Jaskier demands, “Is for you to stop being a teasing prick and fuck me! Or do I have to go find another alpha to get the job done?”

The taunt works. Geralt growls, sinking his teeth into the flesh of Jaskier’s shoulder as his mind chants _mineminemine_. He doesn’t bite hard enough to scar, not enough to bond them, but Jaskier cries and moans and comes across both their stomachs with a frantic jerk of his hips. 

“D-did you just…?” Jaskier’s eyes are glazed, his mind hazy even as his cock starts rising again with a fresh wave of heat. Geralt shakes his head. 

“Not yet.” He kisses the small mark, licking over it and imagining the real bond mark he’ll leave. Just as soon as Jaskier’s clear-headed enough to not agree to anything as long as it gets him fucked. 

“I believe I told you to fuck me, alpha.” With one release under his belt, the desperation has receded to leave Jaskier a little more coherent.

Geralt will soon do something about that. 

“I believe you did,” Geralt agrees, lining himself up and sinking home with one smooth thrust. 

Jaskier’s mouth falls open in a silent ‘o’, hands holding a bruising grip on whatever part of Geralt he can reach. As Geralt rolls his hips he feels nails raking down his back, Jaskier pressing his head to Geralt’s shoulder to bury his moans. Or maybe it’s to get closer to his scent glands, to press his nose to Geralt’s neck as the alpha fucks him slow and deliberate.

And fuck, Jaskier’s not tight but he’s hot and slick and oh so willing, clenching down around Geralt’s cock. His own neglected length is trapped between them, red and leaking where it’s pressed against his stomach as Geralt leans down to kiss him again.

Jaskier’s properly whining now, a string of soft keening noises muffled against Geralt’s lips with every rock of the alpha’s hips. And it’s slow torture, every drag of his cock inside Jaskier sparking through both of them, pleasure coiling in each of their guts from the friction, the heat, the _scent_. Jaskier’s skin is fire against Geralt’s naturally cooler flesh, but right now the Witcher is surely running hotter than the best whore on the continent.

“Geralt, Geralt, please,” Jaskier moans, thrusting down with every forward snap of Geralt’s hip, reaching down to desperately close a hand around himself.

Geralt knocks his hand away, replacing it with his own. Jaskier whines, and his hand pulls just shy of painfully at Geralt’s hair.

“Tell me what you want, Jask,” Geralt mumbles, pressing his lips to the other’s jaw.

“Want your knot,” Jaskier says. “Fuck, want your bond mark, want to be _yours_ , alpha.”

Geralt silences him by sealing their lips together, picking up the pace as he chases his own pleasure. He can feel his knot forming, getting closer to catching with every thrust. Jaskier’s gasping and squirming down, trying desperately to impale himself on the knot.

With a final thrust Geralt buries himself in Jaskier, knot growing, catching as he spills his release deep in his omega. His mate.

“Ah, ah, fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier yells, and surely everyone downstairs can hear them. Good. Everyone will know who Jaskier belongs to.

“Come for me, Lark,” Geralt commands, tightening his hold on Jaskier’s cock. The omega is helpless to resist, crying out as his release rips through him, spend painting their stomachs white.

It’s hard to position them with Geralt’s knot still connecting them and Jaskier limp in his arms, but Geralt manages to lay down without tugging too much and wrap Jaskier in his arms.

Geralt is just beginning to enjoy the pleasant silence when Jaskier regains the power of speech.

“Did you really think I was a beta?” he asks, fingers idly combing through Geralt’s hair.

“Fae blood makes it difficult to scent you,” Geralt explains, even as he noses against Jaskier’s scent glands. “You don’t smell like an omega.”

Jaskier shakes his head, laughing.

“I guess that would explain why you never responded to my flirting.”

Geralt frowns. “You were flirting?”

Jaskier looks up at him, as if trying to decide whether or not Geralt is joking. Finding his expression serious, the bard sighs dramatically.

“Honestly, you are _impossible_ sometimes.” Even as he says it, he can’t quite keep the stupid grin off his face.

“We could’ve done this years ago,” Geralt says. Jaskier kisses him.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he says, with no trace of hurt in his voice, no anger over years lost.

“You could’ve found someone else. Another alpha.” Even as he says it, he tightens his hold possessively. Jaskier is _his_.

“I didn’t _want_ anyone else,” Jaskier says, rubbing his nose against Geralt’s neck, absolutely covering the alpha in his scent in the process. “It’s a— _fuck_ —it’s a fae thing.”

Jaskier curses as he shifts, tugging on the knot. Geralt merely arches a brow. Jaskier, if possible, turns an even darker shade of red. 

“Can’t be satisfied by just anyone,” he says. “We have to want them. Otherwise we ride out heat alone.”

Geralt nips at his neck, teeth worrying the skin for a few moments before soothing over the blossoming mark with his tongue. Now that he knows the scent he’s overwhelmed by it, lost in it, and the knowledge that it’s all for him makes it even headier. Jaskier hides against him, most definitely still blushing, moaning under his breath as the motion pulls at the knot inside him.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt murmurs, closing his eyes to breathe in the scent of his mate.

“I meant it,” Jaskier says, some indeterminate amount of time later. “I want you to bond me. If…if that’s what you want.”

Geralt’s heart stutters at the hope in Jaskier’s voice, the vulnerability in the deep blue eyes boring into his. How could he ever want anything, any _one_ , else?

“Where?” Geralt asks, licking over the half mark left earlier, fangs just barely brushing the skin. Jaskier shudders.

“Here.” He reaches a hand over his shoulder, running his fingers over the spot between spine and shoulder blade. It’s not exactly traditional, but they’re neither of them traditional themselves.

Geralt place his hand over Jaskier’s, tracing the spot.

“Is that okay?” Jaskier asks, looking up at him.

“Perfect,” Geralt says, low voice rumbling through their chests. “ _You’re_ perfect.”

Jaskier preens at the praise, even as Geralt’s knot starts to soften and Jaskier’s cock starts to harden. They’ve a long way to go before they’re out of the woods, but neither care. Not when Jaskier smells of sunshine and wildflowers and _love_. Not when Geralt has his omega, his mate, in his arms.

“I love you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and Geralt doesn’t even hesitate to respond.

“I love you too.”


End file.
